


Three Days in December

by ThaFost



Category: due South
Genre: Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:51:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaFost/pseuds/ThaFost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at three days in December at the Canadian Consulate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days in December

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mountie_rider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountie_rider/gifts).



There’s a feeling a person gets, when a storm is about to come. There’s a chill in the air, and a dampness around. Its power rides before it, and it’s tangible. That’s the same sort of feeling that Renfield gets right before Fraser enters the consulate after ending a case with Vecchio. Or the detective currently identified as Vecchio. The familiar roar of a particular engine is one of the clues to a returning Fraser. As he listens to the rumble, he feels the power and chill associated with a triumphant Fraser back from the precinct. So it was on the twelfth of December. 

Renfield sits up at attention behind his desk. As Fraser enters, Diefenbaker in tow, Renfield greets him. “Hello sir, welcome back to Canada. Did everything go well with Detective Vecchio?” Fraser nods and removes his Stetson. As he does so, Renfield notices his right hand has a splint over two of the fingers.

“Ah, yes, well, we did catch the suspects, but I did break a finger in the process, but rest assured it will heal satisfactorily.” Fraser fiddles with his hat in his hands. “Has your day been successful?”

“Well sir, Inspector Thatcher has been in her office on a conference call with Ottawa all day, and I have found things to do to keep me busy.” Renfield lowers his voice, even though there’s no one around to overhear them. “There’s some pasta in the kitchen.” 

Constable Fraser rocks on his feet as he thinks, and Dief makes a noise of protest. “Well I guess it has been a long day. I’ll go see myself to the kitchen. Thank you kindly, Turnbull.”

“You’re very welcome, sir.” Diefenbaker trots after Constable Fraser, and once again Renfield is alone at his post. 

It isn’t very long before Fraser returns, clad in his less than official plaid shirt, and Renfield wonders how he managed that with his fingers in a cast. However, wondering leads to images that aren't what one should think of a co-worker; especially not of a co-worker like Fraser. Renfield’s collar feels uncomfortable, and he runs a finger around it. “Are you alright?” Fraser asks, head cocked.

“Quite alright sir. You’re the injured one, are you alright?” He asks quickly, trying to avoid his previous thoughts.

“Yes, I expect I will be, in time.” Fraser pauses for a few moments, and plays with the hem of his shirt. “The pasta made for a lovely dinner. Thank you for preparing it.”

“It was no trouble.” It really was no trouble, as Renfield rather enjoys preparing food for others. He had saved some for himself to take home for tonight’s dinner. “Christmas is fast approaching. Do you have any plans for the holidays?” 

Fraser fixes a lopsided grin at Renfield. “I will be spending the holidays in Chicago, a fair bit of it, I dare say, in the consulate itself.” Fraser looks away, ashamed, Renfield notes. “I still have no apartment of my own, and I believe Detective Vecchio will be spending it with his... family.” Renfield notices that Fraser sounded a bit sad about the situation.

“I am also spending the holidays in Chicago. If you are interested, we could spend Christmas dinner together, sir.” Renfield tries to ignore the fervent beating of his heart; it shouldn’t race at the thought of a dinner shared between them. Even if the dinner was a major holiday meant to be spent with family and loved ones.

“I’d like that Turnbull. We can have it here, if you’d like. Since the kitchen’s made for events.” Fraser states, and Renfield feels himself smile.

 

It’s Christmas Eve before Renfield thinks about that again, as Fraser asks him to come into his office in the consulate near the end of the work day. Fraser fiddles with a small box, before handing it to Renfield. “Here. I thought you might like this.”

The wrapping isn’t nearly as crisp as he expects of Fraser, but as Fraser had broken his finger, he could hardly fault a less than perfect wrapping job. There’s a silver bow, less than centered on the top. His fingers catch under it, pulling at the adhesive square, and accidentally removing the bow from the adhesive.

Renfield then turns the box over, sliding a finger under one of the festive corners. Smiling snowmen look up at him, as he flicks it open easily. The box slides tightly through the paper as he pulls, but he gets the small red box out of the wrapping paper. Lifting the lid, he finds a gift certificate to a spa. He’s a little confused, but he thanks Fraser. “Why, why thank you Fraser.”

“Oh dear. I, ah, asked Detective Vecchio to help me wrap. It would appear that I have mistakenly switched your gift with Inspector Thatcher’s.” Fraser pauses a moment and goes quite pale. “Oh. Oh dear.”

“Fraser!” Shouts Thatcher’s voice from elsewhere in the consulate.

“Excuse me.” Fraser leaves quickly, but Renfield can hear him get caught in the hall by Inspector Thatcher. “Sir.”

“Oh, oh Fraser. I had no idea.” Renfield frowns. No idea? It wasn’t even her gift. Suddenly Renfield realizes the sounds coming from the hall have turned to kisses. Then the sounds stop again.

“Ah, about that sir, I have accidentally given you, ah, Turnbull’s Christmas gift.”

“Turnbull?”

“Yes, sir.” Fraser says sounding tense.

“You! And... and him!”

“Yes, sir.”

There are sounds that seem to be stomping behind the door, and some rustling before the door opens again. Fraser is looking flushed, and his hair looks mussed. He hands Renfield a box without wrapping, approximately the same size as the one he has in his hands. Then Fraser, Renfield dares say, flees the room.

Renfield lifts the box's lid, finding a note and a lovely scarf. He lifts the note from its resting place. The note is written in Benton’s handwriting, and it’s not specifically addressed to Renfield, which probably helped Thatcher’s conclusion. 

The note reads: _The past few months you have been most kind to me. I have rather enjoyed our working relationship, but found myself wanting more. Not being well versed in romance, I hope that my assumption that you too desire more isn’t unfounded. Please let me know one way or another._ Under the content of the note is Benton crossed out and replaced with Constable Fraser, and Constable crossed out as well.

Renfield smiles at the tender note. It definitely explains most of the interaction in the hallway. He leaves Fraser’s office, looking for either the man or his animal companion. Dief always knows where to find Fraser. The consulate is not a very large building, but Renfield wanders for quite a while and finds neither of them. He supposes that perhaps Fraser wishes not to be found. Renfield decides that he’ll wait until their dinner tomorrow before letting him know, and besides, Renfield has an idea on how to do that.

 

On Christmas day, Renfield lets himself into the consulate, ingredients already in the fridge for making a holiday lunch. He tries to be as quiet in the kitchen as he can be, but he still wakes Constable Fraser, who sits down at the table in his red long johns. It’s strange, moving to put things away, feeling the other man’s eyes on his back as he settles into the kitchen, but Fraser makes no comments. He slips a small box out of the things he has, and places it on the table in front of Fraser. “You can open it whenever.”

Renfield gets the ham in the oven as fast as he can, before he puts on a pot of coffee. He knows Fraser prefers tea, but he wants to steel his own nerves a bit. Fraser’s still sitting at the table in his long johns, box untouched, watching Renfield move about the kitchen, and it makes Renfield uncomfortably warm. It takes him a few minutes to calmly pour himself a cup of the coffee after it’s done, but holding the mug between his hands helps him focus.

Fraser has a journal with him, Renfield notices, and he seems to be engrossed with the writing in it. Perhaps one of his father’s, saved from the apartment fire. After a few sips of his coffee, Renfield returns to his work, setting to the chopping, and making up a small tidbit tray. It’s easy work, and he loses himself in it for quite some time.

When Renfield next feels nervous, he looks up to see Fraser sitting at the table in casual clothing. Renfield always has a small desire to run his hands over the arms of the white turtleneck to see if it’s as soft as it looks. He has resisted the desire quite successfully most days. Fraser’s mouth is in a tight line, and his brows are lowered as he squints at the box in front of him. It’s still wrapped, but Fraser has made no direct move yet.

“My answer’s in there.” Renfield says, breaking the silence. “If you don’t want to know yet, that’s okay.” His words seem to spur Fraser into motion however, and Renfield watches him tear at the paper, as well as he can with the splint. After a few moments, he gets the down to the box, and pries the lid off.

Fraser pulls a plant cutting out of the box and examines it. “ _Phoradendron leucarpum_. Irritable to humans for consumption, but also a longstanding Christmas tradition. Am I to take this as a good sign of your affections?” There’s a feeling of doubt in Fraser’s words.

“Very much so, sir.” Fraser holds the mistletoe aloft, and beckons Renfield closer. “Sir, I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
